Bill’s Beginnings
In late November's cradle
was William Lawson born
while a Yorkshire wind wined
and the Great War’s echoes waned
his father/ a badge
pinned against a heart of stone
the village’s watchful eye
his mother’s lullaby
silenced by fate
in the gloom of widowhood
beat the boy to a man
thirteen years spun like cotton
raw and frayed
discipline etched in leather terror
sent to the farm
work hard/ keep quiet
this was the boy's life
each weekend would rumble
the motorbike’s breath
a cold transaction
as his dad took his cash
patiently he waited until of an age
thoughts of freedom began to take place
he ran to the army
where hopes intertwined
marked in the ledger
his scars aligned
“Report to the office,” came the harsh, sterile call
“Your father is asking—he’s searching for you”
a letter to write, though the ink felt like chains
words caught in his throat, bound by such pain
yet he wrote not of sorrow
or the belt’s cruel mark
but of dreams woven deeply
a craving to carve
a life of his own
despite each cold morning
and every tear spent
in the field of spirit
he harvested much
for the past may be heavy
like the clod of the earth
but William – now Bill
decides his own song
his rebirth
This is the first in a cycle of poems about my husband's grandad. He has been researching, in particular, his war history. As with many of that generation they stayed silent about their experiences. In my experience of writing these poems I have come closer to understanding who he was and the fortitude he displayed to overcome. This goes for many who fought and behaved so bravely in World War Two.